


A Weekend In the Country

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M, Slash, Valentine Challenge 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:11:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1215607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a difficult mission, Napoleon decides to take his partner away for a little R&R.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Weekend In the Country

****(written for Valentine Challenge 2014 on LJ Scrapbook)

 

 

“Where are you taking me?” Illya asked as the light blue Chrysler convertible sped down the Interstate. It was a fine Spring day, the start of a perfect weekend.

“Never you mind, my curious Russian,” Napoleon chuckled. He reached over to give Illya's hand a playful slap. “Hey, no peeking now. Keep that blindfold on.”

“No need to resort to violence.” Sighing, he dropped his hand to his lap. “I look ridiculous.”

“You look adorable. If you're worried, put your sunglasses on over the blindfold. No one will even know it's there.”

Illya started to argue, then thought better of it. He slipped on his sunglasses and leaned back against the headrest, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on his skin. “Where did you say we were going?”

“It's a surprise.”

He had received the same answer for the past two hours. All he knew for certain was that they were no longer in New York City. The air smelled fresh and pure, with no hint of the choking pollution of Midtown Manhattan, and no incessant roar of traffic. He caught an occasional whiff of apple blossoms, suggesting they were somewhere in the country, perhaps near an orchard or a farm.

“I admit to being intrigued by this little excursion of yours,” he remarked casually, “but my mind is in dire need of stimulation. With this blindfold on, I cannot watch the scenery or read a book, and the car radio is broken. Would you reduce me to twiddling my thumbs for entertainment?”

Napoleon glanced over. “How about a game of Botticelli?”

“A hint as to our destination would be more useful.”

He laughed. “You don't give up, do you?! Okay, I'll give you one hint, but just one.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Hmmm... Remember that cozy little inn near _Loch na Carraigeach,_ the one with the feather bed and the view of the water?”

“Ah, yes, the famous feather bed.” Illya's lips twitched. “So – your plan is to drive us to Scotland in a Chrysler convertible? I know you think you walk on water, _lubimy'i_ , but isn't there a rather large ocean in the way?”

Napoleon laughed. “Waverly would never give us the time off. But you're getting warm...”

“We cannot be going kilt shopping – I doubt they have a tartan for the Kuryakin clan. Hmmm...Bagpipe lessons? A haggis festival?” He shrugged. “I need more clues.”

“Greedy Russian.” His hand strayed to Illya's thigh. “Do you remember the things we did in that feather bed, Illyushka _?”_

Illya's breath caught. “Vividly. We were quite – innovative, as I recall.” He felt a delightful stirring in his groin. “Are we buying a feather bed for the apartment?” he asked hopefully.

The hand slid higher. “You're getting warmer,” Napoleon replied with a delicious smile, “but you're not there yet.”

“Keep doing that, _lubimy'i_ , and I will be there very soon!”

Napoleon chuckled, but he removed his hand.

The miles rolled by. Gradually, Illya relaxed, lulled into a drowsy contentment by the warm sunshine and the rhythm of the tires on the road. Their last mission had been a grueling one, and for once he was glad the UNCLE doctors had prescribed a few days rest.

They approached a town. Illya could hear the increased sounds of traffic, and the hum of human activity ebbing and flowing around them. Without warning, the convertible swerved sharply to the right, leaving the paved road behind. They were on a rougher surface now. Gravel, he thought. He could hear little pebbles pinging the undercarriage of the car.

Another turn. They slowed, and this time they stopped. Napoleon switched off the engine and pocketed the keys. In the sudden quiet, Illya heard birds singing.

“We're here.” Napoleon removed the sunglasses and blindfold, and Illya blinked at the sudden brightness.

They were in the parking lot of an upscale inn. A profusion of rhododendrons and azaleas framed the portico of the elegant stone building, their vibrant pink and purple blossoms like the colors in a Maxfield Parrish painting. A cobblestone path led past an herb garden, redolent with the scent of lavender and rosemary. A fountain burbled somewhere nearby. _The Lion and Thistle_ , _Lenox, Massachusetts_. read the sign over the entrance.

“Surprise,” Napoleon said.

Illya's eyes lit with pleasure. “A Scottish inn! So this is what all the mystery was about.”

“We have a couple days leave, and I thought we should take the opportunity to get away. I knew the place was perfect as soon as I saw the brochure.”

“It looks expensive.”

“Positively outrageous, but try to rein in your usual Soviet austerity, just this once. God knows, we can use a little pampering after that awful business in Madrid.”

Illya shuddered at the memory. Imprisoned by the madman Don Alonzo de Venganza, he had been injected with a potent cocktail of hallucinogens, and subjected to a series of bizarre and inexplicable tests of his _machismo._ He could still hear Don Alonzo's rasping, deranged voice, explaining the importance of proving one's manhood, and the necessity of the tests, the survival of which would determine Illya's worthiness to live. In his mind's eye, he saw again the hypothermia chamber, the cage of bullet ants, the pit of quicksand _,_ the bullfighting arena...

He gasped as a wave of sensation wracked his body. For an instant, he could feel the ants on his skin, their mandibles clamping down, releasing their excruciating toxin into his flesh. He tasted the bitter flavor of the drugs. The mud rose around him, smothering. His lungs struggled to take in non-existent air. The bull lowered its head and charged –

“Illyushka?”

He clasped his hands together, hoping Napoleon wouldn't see them shaking. “I survived, _lubimy'i_. It is over.” He marveled at how calm the words sounded; how reasonable.

“But not forgotten.” The senior agent's warm hands encircled his own. “I should've been there sooner. Christ, when I think what would have happened if I hadn't found you –”

“But you did find me,” Illya replied quietly. “You always find me.” His features softened at the memory – Napoleon barreling into the arena with a half-dozen agents, taking out Don Alonzo with a single, lethal shot. Napoleon's hands lifting him from the dusty ground, wiping the blood from his face. His voice, soothing and safe, penetrating the languid haze of drugs.

“I thought of you the whole time, _lubimy'i._ The smell of you, the taste, the feel of your hands on my skin. How much I love you, and how awful it would be to –” His voice caught. “– to die without ever seeing you again.”

“Don Alonzo is dead,” Napoleon reminded him softly, “and you're alive. In the end, you were the stronger one.”

Illya took a long, cleansing breath. The air was fresh and clean. It felt good to breathe.

Napoleon pressed a kiss upon his cheek. “Enough talk of missions,” he declared firmly. “Let's focus on more pleasant things.”

Illya managed the barest hint of a smile. “Such as?”

“Oh, I have a whole list of indecent suggestions we could try.”

The smile widened. “By chance, do any of your suggestions involve a feather bed?”

“Possibly.” His arm slid around Illya's shoulder. “We UNCLE agents are nothing if not resourceful.”

“So I have heard.”

*/*/*/

The front desk clerk swung the register around for them to sign. “Welcome to _The Lion and Thistle_ , gentlemen. I see you've reserved – oh dear.” He looked up at the two men, the very picture of dismay. “Oh, dear.”

Napoleon frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“I'm afraid so. It says on the reservation card that you've requested one of our deluxe cottages, Argyle.”

“That's right. I understand it has a lovely view of the lake.”

“Yes. Yes it does. However – Well, that is to say – ” The fellow cleared his throat. “I'm afraid someone's made a dreadful mistake.”

“Mistake?”

The desk clerk bent over his reservation book. The pages crackled as he flipped through them. “Hmmm. I see you made your reservation the day before yesterday. I'm surprised a room was even available on such short notice. The weekend has been sold out for months.”

“Just lucky, I guess. You mentioned a mistake?”

“Are you gentlemen here for the concert?”

“What concert?” Napoleon asked with a trace of impatience. _Didn't the man know how to answer a direct question?_

“You're not serious?! Oh, dear! Well naturally I just assumed –” The clerk's nose lifted disdainfully at their shocking ignorance. “Leontyne Price is singing the role of Desdemona in _Otello_ at The Berkshire Performing Arts Center tomorrow night. It's a special gala event, so naturally _everybody_ who's _anybody_ has come up from Manhattan for the performance. There's not another room available for fifty miles.”

Napoleon repressed the urge to strangle the tiresome man. “We don't need _another_ room. We already booked _this_ one.”

“Yes, Sir, but as I've already explained, it's the wrong cottage.”

“In point of fact, my good man, you haven't explained anything at all. It's a room, and we reserved it. Why can't you just give us the key, and we'll be on our way?”

The clerk's nose rose a tad higher at Napoleon's brusque tone. “Well, naturally I can, Sir, if you insist, but –”

“I insist.”

“– but I wouldn't recommend it.”

Napoleon counted to ten. Slowly. “Why. Not?”

“Argyle Cottage only has the one bed.”

“And?”

“It's a double.”

“ _And?”_

The desk clerk's proboscis rose into the stratosphere. “There are _two_ of you.”

“So? It's a double bed, isn't it? Two people can fit in a double bed.”

“Well, yes, but it wouldn't be very comfortable. Not to mention – well, _you_ know.”

Napoleon's smile stopped short of his eyes. “No. I _don't_ know. Why don't you spell it out for me.”

The clerk sniffed. “I should think it would be obvious, Sir. Two men sleeping in the same bed? People might think you were a tad – light in the loafers.”

“ _Excuse_ me??”

He glanced around. “ _You_ know. Airy-fairy.”

The senior agent had had enough. “Well, now that you mention it, Maestro Kuryakin and I –” He leered wickedly at Illya. “– do enjoy a bit of a snuggle at bedtime. If you know what I mean.”

“I, uh – That is – I beg your pardon?” The desk clerk looked decidedly uncomfortable now. "Did you say, 'Maestro?'"

"Mmm-hmm. Moscow Philharmonic. I'm surprised you didn't recognize him."

A scarlet flush began to work its way up the little man's neck. 

“The Maestro is _such_ a restless sleeper. Aren't you, sweetie?”

Illya fell into his assigned role with gusto. He grinned stupidly and linked arms with Napoleon. “ _Da._ Ees true. I trouble sleep.”

The awful accent almost undid Napoleon. He laughed, and turned it into a cough. “Maestro Kuryakin has been known to – _rise_ to the occasion, as it were – at all hours of the night,” he informed the blushing clerk, drawing a snort from the Russian. “Sex helps him sleep.”

“Oh d-dear.”

“Ees zee curse of inspiration! Sometime zee glorious muse, she strike wizzout warning. I must _come_ whan she call!”

“Oh, dear!”

“Nothing like a lusty roll in the hay to get the creative juices flowing, I suppose.” Napoleon leaned across the desk. “Confidentially,” he whispered. “the Maestro is a tad eccentric. Sleeps in the nude, you know.”

“ _Oh, dear!”_ The embarrassed clerk groped under the desk for their room key. He emerged, his lips stretched in a pathetic parody of a smile. “H-here you are, uh, gentlemen. I hope your stay at _The Lion and Thistle_ will be an – inspiring one. Rest assured, our staff will see to it that you and Maestro Kuryakin are not, uh, disturbed. At all.”

The wattage in Napoleon's smile could have lit up a city. “Perfect. Now, if you could just point us in the direction of our cottage?”

The desk clerk watched as Napoleon, hand resting possessively on the small of Illya's back, guided the Maestro through the French doors at the rear of the lobby. The Maestro's shoulders appeared to be quivering.

 _Musicians,_ the clerk thought privately. _That explains it._

*/*/*/

They tumbled into the sunshine, hysterical with laughter.

“'Glorious muse?'” Napoleon snickered. “'I trouble sleep?!'”

“'Creative juices?' ' _Rise_ to the occasion?'”

“I couldn't help myself. The guy was an obsequious little snob.”

“He reminded me of the White Rabbit.”

“'Oh, dear!'” they chorused, which set off another fit of laughter.

They were still laughing when they arrived at Argyle Cottage, a cheerful bungalow set back on a green lawn, overlooking a small lake.

“It looks just like the one in _Loch na Carraigeach_ ,” Illya exclaimed in surprise. “All that is missing is a flock of sheep.”

Napoleon nodded. “That's what I thought when I saw the brochure.” They stepped across the threshold, their hearts racing just a little bit faster.

Argyle Cottage was exactly as the brochure in Napoleon's pocket had promised – a cozy, romantic getaway, an authentic Highland retreat nestled in the foothills of the Berkshires. A carpeted sitting area contained an antique sofa and club chairs nestled around a fireplace. A vase of tulips rested on the small breakfast table beside a bottle of wine and two Waterford crystal glasses. A pair of fluffy bathrobes hung on hooks on the bathroom door.

“It's perfect,” Illya sighed, and kissed him.

Napoleon leaned into the kiss, his fingers slipping behind Illya's neck to clutch the soft, blond hair. Illya's lips softened in welcome, even as other parts of his anatomy grew hard.

Reluctantly, they broke apart. “We have time for a nap before supper,” Napoleon said, brushing a stray lock of hair from his lover's eyes.

“At the moment, _lubimy'i_ , sleep is the furthest thing from my mind."

“In that case, follow me.” He turned toward the bedroom, kicking off his shoes as he went.

Illya chuckled. “Why do I get the feeling I'm about to be devoured?”

The feather bed was magnificent – Jacobean in style, and intricately carved, its goosedown comforter piled high with pillows. The comforter was soft and inviting, the pillows plump and full. Sensing his partner watching, Napoleon took the bottle of baby oil from his overnight case, and placed it prominently upon the night table. He smiled to himself at Illya's sharp intake of breath.

He drew down the bedcovers and stretched out, arms spread across the pillows, legs splayed invitingly. “Mmm, comfy,” he purred as he nestled provocatively into the soft sheets. “Care to join me? Perhaps it's time we explored a few of those indecent suggestions we discussed in the car.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Illya murmured, advancing on the bed. The mattress dipped as he stretched out beside Napoleon. "Where shall we begin?"

"Here, I think." Napoleon's hands slid under Illya's crisp white shirt, tugging it free. Illya shrugged off the garment, sending the buttons flying.

The hands traveled downward, caressing the crotch of his jeans, and he arched up, groaning. He shimmied out of them, too impatient to bother with the zipper. In his dazed state, he was dimly aware of Napoleon flinging his own clothing to the floor.

They came together in a frenzy of need, gasping at the contact, flesh against bare flesh, nothing, and everything, between them. Napoleon's deft fingers touched him everywhere, tracing the hard contours of his ribcage and the slender arc of his hips before finally settling into softer, more intimate spaces. Illya cried out as the fingers probed, and found what they sought.

They rocked against one another, wet sounds mingling with frantic whimpers of delight and desperation. _I want. I need. Now. Please._ In a single, forceful move, Napoleon rolled Illya onto his belly, and reached for the oil. Bodies shifted; aligned. Claimed. Surrendered. Napoleon pressed in, sparks of white heat flaring behind his eyes at the exquisite tightness. Illya moaned in pleasure, and drew him deeper, urging him on with little gasps and groans. They moved as one, sweat-slick bodies pounding the sheets, the bed springs creaking wildly beneath them.

Napoleon drove deep, a sudden, powerful thrust, and Illya's hands reached blindly for the headboard. He cried out, and Napoleon, sensing his urgent need, thrust again, whispering obscenities into his ear. A final thrust and Napoleon came hard, hips bucking convulsively as he spilled his seed into his lover's body. It was too much for Illya and, with a bellow of pure, mindless abandon, he came, slipping over the edge of sanity into a place of glorious heat and shattering sweetness.

When it was over, they lay in each other's arms, heart pillowed upon heart, their skin damp with sweat. Their breathing slowed; their bodies grew cool under the rumpled sheets.

Napoleon caressed his lover's flushed face, trailed a string of kisses across the precious, scarred chest. “Alive. Safe. Loved.”

“You always find me,” Illya sighed, and nestled into the harbor of Napoleon's arms.

*/*/*/  
  


 

 


End file.
